


Love and Friendship

by sheliesshattered (glasscannon)



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Dancing, Emma - Jane Austen - Freeform, Episode: s10e03 Thin Ice, F/M, Female Friendship, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, References to Jane Austen, Regency, Romance, Valentine's Day Fluff, canon compliant depending on how you interpret their relationship in s9, hat tip to:, set between Last Christmas and s9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29421519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasscannon/pseuds/sheliesshattered
Summary: “If Jane Austen demands I go to a ball, who am I to argue?” Clara laughed.Canon-compliant Valentine's Day fluff, set between Last Christmas and The Magician's Apprentice. Writer's block, waltzing, and hand kissing, as only Whouffaldi can do.
Relationships: Jane Austen & Clara Oswin Oswald, Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 14
Kudos: 35
Collections: Clara's Diner - 2021 - Valentine Exchange





	Love and Friendship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gnous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnous/gifts).



> My entry for Clara’s Diner Valentine Exchange 2021. Written for Gnous, inspired by our shared love of balls and my current Regency obsession. I hope you enjoy it, my dear!

“This _is_ a ball, cousin, you need not turn away every gentleman who asks you to dance,” Jane said as Clara sat down beside her again, watching the young man in question disappear back into the crowd.

“Of course I must,” Clara replied, rearranging the long skirt of her ballgown and trying not to feel awkward in the unfamiliar clothing. “ _You_ are here for inspiration, and _I_ am here to lend you emotional support through your writer’s block,” she reminded her. “Not to dance with every curious young gentleman who tries to catch my eye.”

“And yet you only increase your mystery by refusing to dance,” Jane pointed out with clear amusement.

Clara stifled a snort of laughter. She was doing her best to blend in with the social mannerisms of the era, but Jane Austen’s particular brand of dry wit often made it difficult to adhere to the 1814 standards of ladylike behavior. “If they actually saw me dance, they would realise I am not at all mysterious, but rather a complete fraud,” Clara murmured to her conspiratorially. “I don’t know any of these dances, Jane, you know that.”

“How are you to learn if you do not try?” her friend shot back, as she used her hand-fan to create a slight cooling breeze in the overpacked room. “And how am I to find inspiration to write a scene of ballroom romance when we are faced with such dismal surroundings? At least one of us should have a worthwhile evening.”

Clara looked around at the candlelit room, the men in their tailcoats and the women in their fine muslin gowns, dancing in lines that wove in and out in complex patterns she could hardly follow, much less replicate. It looked like something out of a movie, and she half-expected one of Jane’s own characters to walk in at any moment.

“Oh yes, dismal indeed,” she said, with just enough sarcasm that she knew Jane would take her meaning. “I am here for _you_ , my dear cousin,” she went on, using the affectionate if highly inaccurate title they had chosen for each other. “The chance to be here and see all this with you is more than enough for me. Besides, I have never had the slightest interest in pretty young men.”

“Hmm,” Jane replied, in the way Clara knew meant she was thinking something far too clever for either of their good. “And where is your Scottish Doctor, of late?” she asked lightly. “I have hardly seen him since you arrived last week.”

“Vacated the country until the end of the social season, if I had to guess,” Clara said ruefully, trying to will away the blush that wanted to rise in her cheeks. Acknowledging any connection between the Doctor and her disinterest in pretty young men would only feed Jane’s on-going fascination with their relationship. “You know how he is about public occasions, especially anything as formal as this. Though I expect he’ll be back to collect me within a few weeks, so we really must try to get you past this difficulty with the next chapter of _Emma_ by then.”

Jane sighed, opening and closing her fan in a fidgeting motion Clara knew all too well. “Or you could simply _tell_ me how the scene at Mr Weston’s ball is meant to proceed, given that you have already read the finished novel!”

“Jane, we’ve talked about this, you know I can’t.”

“Yes, yes, so you have said repeatedly. And if I have to hear about the ‘bootstrap paradox’ even _one more time_ , you will find your own bootstraps paradoxed come morning,” Jane muttered.

Clara hid her laugh behind a cough and a gloved hand. “Your practical jokes, cousin, are some of the best and worst aspects of visiting you. Best because I very much enjoy finding ways to return the favour, and worst because I cannot possibly tell _anyone_ that I have been routinely pranked by _Jane Austen_.”

“Anyone besides your Scottish Doctor,” Jane replied slyly.

“Shall we take a turn about the room?” Clara said, standing quickly and hoping to head off the subject. “Perhaps another angle might provide a better vantage point to spot an inspiring budding romance.”

Jane closed her fan and stood as well, looping her arm through Clara’s. “Yes, let’s,” she said, and they began walking slowly around the edge of the dancefloor. “Though a flirtation between young people is hardly the inspiration I need for writing our dear Emma and Mr Knightley. What I require instead is a vision of a long friendship between two people who know each other better than any other, abruptly turning on its head to _become_ romance. A significant age difference between them would be an _excellent_ touch,” she added pointedly, with a sidelong glance at Clara.

“You are the _worst_ ,” Clara whispered to her under her breath. “And as fixated on matchmaking as Emma Woodhouse ever was.”

“I cannot claim to even begin to understand your relationship with the Doctor, Clara,” she murmured in reply. “Nor the social proprieties that govern your own time, two centuries from now. But it is clear to anyone who has ever seen you together that you _are_ quite attached to the gentleman, and he to you. You must at least admit that much.”

Clara thought about the Doctor, her longstanding feelings for him that she had never quite managed to hide, and how things had shifted between them since Christmas. “Let’s just say that we have an understanding, and leave it at that,” she told Jane quietly.

“The sort of understanding that leads to marriage, I hope?” she asked in a similar tone.

“Jane...”

“I am sorry, my dear, I ought not needle you about it so,” she said, patting Clara’s arm affectionately. “I only wish to see you happy.”

“How could I _not_ be happy, here with you?”

“You know what I mean. Marriage is the one happiness I have vowed never to engage in myself, so I cannot help but want it for you.”

Clara mulled over her words for a moment, watching the couples spin around each other in the centre of the room. “He cannot marry,” she told Jane softly. “But I find I can’t bear to be parted from him. Not again. Even if it means that I will never marry, either.”

“Ah. And thus the understanding.”

“And thus the understanding,” Clara agreed. “And thus the _other_ reason I do not wish to dance with anyone, second only to the fact that I simply _can’t_ dance.”

“If this halt on my writing plagues me much longer, I shall take it upon myself to teach you the dances of my time, one evening when we are comfortable at home. Dancing truly is such an excellent diversion from anything that ails your heart. Or your pen.”

“We will get you through this yet, Jane, I promise you that,” Clara said. “We can’t leave Miss Woodhouse and Mr Knightley teetering on the precipice of discovering their love for each other.”

“If you would only permit me a _small_ preview of the finished chapter, we could dispense with all this difficulty!”

“At the risk of my own bootstraps, I must once again decline, dear cousin,” Clara said archly.

Jane laughed and shook her head. “Of course, now you will be suspicious as to the state of your boots for _days_ , I expect, and I shall have to devise an altogether different way to surprise you.”

“Do your worst, Miss Austen,” Clara said, suppressing a grin.

“I shall certainly endeavour to do so, Miss Oswald.”

Pausing by a table laden with drinks and small desserts, they selected two of the freshly delivered ices, hoping to help ward off the heat of the ballroom. They ate them quickly, before the ice could melt in their cups, and then laughed together over the resulting cold headaches. 

Despite how much the room around them looked like a scene from a movie, no film adaptation of Jane’s books could ever come close to capturing the experience of being there with her, in all of reality’s textures of taste and touch and smell. Clara had seen so many wonders in her travels with the Doctor, but it often seemed that the simplest and most mundane moments were the ones that stayed with her long after she’d returned home, and she knew this time with Jane would be no exception.

“I do not mean to alarm you, cousin,” Jane said quietly as they moved away from the refreshments, “but I believe that gentleman has been staring at you for the better part of five minutes, now.”

Clara followed Jane’s eyeline, and then quickly looked away. “Oh my— _stars_ ,” she whispered fiercely, stumbling over an entirely different phrase that would certainly raise eyebrows in the Regency countryside setting. “What is he doing here??”

“Do you recognise him?” Jane asked. “I admit I can hardly make out his particulars, you know the difficulty these candlelit rooms inflict on my eyesight.”

“Yes, I recognise him,” Clara said, stealing another quick glance. “ _That_ is the Doctor.”

“Is it really?” Jane said with interest, looking at him far more openly than Clara could currently manage. “Why, of course you are right! Although without your endorsement I would not have known him, given that he is dressed as a gentleman rather than in his usual attire of a space-faring vagrant.”

Clara bit her lip, fighting down both a laugh and a blush. “I’ve never seen him dressed this way, either. I wouldn’t have thought it would suit him quite so well,” she admitted, earning a raised eyebrow from her friend.

“Oh, is that why you can hardly stand to look at him, cousin?” Jane asked playfully. “He does cut a rather fine figure, I must say.”

She was definitely losing the battle against the heat rising in her cheeks. “It’s a little like looking at the sun,” she agreed. “Is he still watching us?”

“Better yet, he is coming this way.”

“Oh _no_.”

Jane was positively gleeful at her reaction. “He is your dearest friend in all the world, and yet you dread his arrival?”

Clara risked another glance in the Doctor’s direction, confirming how dashing he looked in Regency attire, cravat and high starched collar and black tailcoat and the _entire_ get-up. “He is the man that I— travel with,” she murmured to Jane conspiratorially, only barely managing to catch herself before a much more revealing truth slipped out. “With whom I have an _understanding_. But he’s never seen me dressed like _this_ ,” she went on, gesturing to the low neckline of her ballgown. “And I have never seen him dressed like— like _that_.”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Jane said mildly. “As he nears I find my eyesight improves, and I must agree with your assessment.”

“Jane Austen, you are the _worst_ ,” Clara whispered vehemently.

She merely smiled, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, quickly now, we must go meet him.”

“What? _Why_??” Clara objected, as Jane linked their arms together again and all but dragged her in the direction of the Doctor.

“Because, my dearest cousin,” Jane said as they walked, only barely slow enough to not draw the attention of anyone around them, “your Doctor has just arrived, unaccompanied, in a ballroom full of eligible young ladies, dressed in the sort of finery that will signal to every mother hoping to find a match for her daughter that he is a man of means. You must stake your claim to him before anyone else has a chance.”

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife,” Clara quoted in a grumbling undertone.

Jane shot her a quick, adoring smile. “I do so love when you recite my own words back to me. If only you could find it in your heart to repeat the favour with _Emma_.”

“I shall find it my heart to prank you _quite severely_ for putting me through this.”

“How exactly is your Doctor arriving at the assembly, looking like _that_ , meant to be _my_ fault?”

“I will find a way to blame this on you, Jane Austen, and don’t think I won’t,” she muttered fiercely, earning a quiet laugh from Jane. They rounded the corner of the dancefloor, and Clara looked up to find the Doctor weaving his way through the crowd just ahead, his gaze fixed on them. From that angle she could see that his waistcoat was a deep TARDIS blue, bringing out the colour of his eyes in the candlelight. 

“Yes, he can certainly pass for a gentleman of means,” Jane whispered to her, “just so long as no one notices his boots. But as there has been _quite_ enough discussion lately of boots and bootstraps and associated paradoxes, I will vow not to mention them if you will do the same.”

“Given the rest of what he’s wearing, his boots seem to be the only safe and familiar thing to focus on,” Clara murmured in response, unable to pull her eyes away from him as they crossed the final few yards that separated them. Abruptly she found herself standing in front of the Doctor, staring up at him and trying to think about anything besides how unreasonably good he looked.

“Doctor, how pleasant it is to see you again,” Jane said, pulling Clara with her into a quick curtsy. 

“Miss Austen,” he greeted her with a nod.

“And of course you remember my cousin, Miss Clara Oswald?” 

He glanced between them uncertainly before seeming to catch on to their game of playing at being proper ladies, in case anyone were to overhear them. “Of course. Miss Oswald,” he said, bowing to her with far more ease than she would have expected, looking the very picture of a proper Regency gentleman, like a character straight from the pages of Jane’s own novels. 

Clara blinked at him, momentarily too stunned to form a coherent sentence, and feeling like she’d forgotten how to breathe. Jane subtly elbowed her in the ribs, jarring her back to reality. “Doctor,” Clara said, managing to smile up at him in spite of herself. “It’s wonderful to see you looking so— well.” 

Jane smothered a laugh behind her fan, and Clara elbowed her back in revenge.

“Um. Thank you?” the Doctor said, sounding far more out of his depth than he looked. “I hope I haven’t interrupted your evening?”

“Not at all,” Jane replied smoothly. “My cousin and I were just commenting on the lack of suitable dance partners at tonight’s ball. Your arrival could not be more timely.”

“ _I will hide every last one of your ink pots, Jane Austen_ ,” Clara hissed at her under her breath.

The Doctor shot her an incredulous look, as the musicians at the front of the room shifted into a new song and couples began to take to the floor.

“Do you know the waltz, Doctor?” Jane said, smiling broadly and seeming determined to maintain control of the conversation.

“The waltz?” he asked, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Yes. It is quite a modern dance, but pleasing in its simplicity. Have you had the opportunity to dance it?”

“Once or twice, I suppose,” the Doctor said, clearly confused by the question.

“Excellent!” Jane said brightly. “Then perhaps you would be so good as to lead my cousin in the waltz just starting? I find I need to sit a while, but I cannot bear to deprive Clara of a chance to stand up with a gentleman, she has been stuck by my side all evening.”

“The. _Worst_ ,” Clara mouthed at her, as Jane transferred Clara’s hand from her arm to the Doctor’s without waiting for his reply.

Jane beamed at her. “Enjoy yourself, cousin dear. I shall sit just there and observe the room, and find the inspiration I have been chasing, I think.” She turned and made her way to an open seat along the edge of the dancefloor, leaving Clara and the Doctor alone in the shuffling crowd.

“Did Jane Austen just tell us to go waltz or else?” he murmured to her.

Clara muffled a snort of laughter and risked a glance up at his face. “She’s been in a mood all evening — writer’s block, you know how she gets. But we’d best do as we’re told.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said ruefully, then led her out onto the floor before turning to face her. 

She was peripherally aware of the music and the other couples nearby, the heat of the room and her unfamiliar clothing, but everything around her seemed to dim with the Doctor’s attention focused on her. “You do know how to do this, right?” she asked apprehensively. 

“Clara, I am over two thousand years old,” the Doctor said in a low tone meant just for her. “I have waltzed a time or two.”

“Good,” she replied, hating how breathless she sounded. “Because I think I’ve completely forgotten how it’s meant to work.”

He gently positioned her left hand on his shoulder, and placed his just below her shoulderblades. “Then maybe you’ll actually let me lead, for once,” he said as he took her other hand, his fingers engulfing hers. He cocked his head to one side, listening to the music, and on the downbeat swept them into motion. 

Clara did her best to follow along with the steps she could _almost_ remember, thankful that it was something as simple as the waltz, at least. The Doctor seemed confident, and she tried to will herself to relax and enjoy the moment with him, surreal though it was.

“You forgot to wear gloves,” she said, not entirely sure where the thought had come from.

She felt him shrug slightly beneath her hand. “Couldn’t find a pair that fit.”

“I’m suddenly regretting that I could,” Clara murmured.

The Doctor looked down at her, and then quickly out at a point somewhere over her shoulder, as they continued to move around the dancefloor. “The wardrobe room was helpful enough with the rest of the outfit,” he said, with what Clara suspected might be forced casualness. “I think I got the year right.”

“Jane seemed to think so,” she said, trying to match his unaffected air, “to the point that she suggested you might be in danger from all the mothers of eligible daughters.”

“Why?” he demanded, with another quick glance at her and away.

“You have actually _read_ Jane’s novels, right?” Clara said. “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged’ and all that?”

“Ah. I just thought— Well, I didn’t want to draw undue attention by showing up dressed anachronistically.”

“I’d say you succeeded,” she replied, letting her eyes trace the line of his high collar to where it met with his silver curls. She swallowed and forced herself to look away, feeling her blush rising again. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I came to check on you, and see how Jane’s writing is coming along,” the Doctor said. “I dropped by the Austen home, but was informed that I could find the two of you here. And also...” he trailed off. “Never mind.” 

“No, not ‘never mind’. Also what?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he said obliquely.

She blinked up at him, meeting his eyes briefly before he looked away. “It’s the middle of June, 1814,” she informed him flatly. “And back home, we’d only just had Christmas.”

“Where I was, elsewhere,” he said, “it was Valentine’s Day. So I thought—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Clara could feel a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Did you miss me, daft old man?” 

He looked down at her, finally managing to hold her gaze. “I always miss you, Clara Oswald,” he said quietly, his hand on her back pulling her ever so slightly closer to him.

And there she went, not being able to breathe again. It was the damned corset Jane had laced her into earlier, and the exertion from dancing, and the overcrowdedness of the warm room. That was all. Nothing at all to do with the way the Doctor was looking at her, or how close they were to each other as they danced, or the inherent romance of waltzing together at a genuine Regency ball. Definitely, definitely not that.

“Have you always been this short?” the Doctor asked, his eyebrows pulling together. In the candlelight his eyes were an almost startling blue, and Clara couldn’t quite bring herself to look away.

“Dancing slippers,” she replied, breathless. “Heels aren’t— aren’t in fashion for women just now.”

“Ah. No reaching high shelves for you, then, I suppose.”

“Luckily I have you for that,” she said without thinking.

“Always,” he said seriously. He looked away abruptly, sweeping his gaze over the crowd without settling on anything. “Though I actually _like_ high shelves, so don’t expect me to go changing the TARDIS architecture just because you’ve decided to be short.”

She laughed lightly, almost relieved at the shift in his tone. “No, of course not.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, and Clara let herself sink into the reality of this moment, dancing with the Doctor in a candlelit ballroom. It was so different from their usual adventures, no one to save, no mystery to solve, no threat to defeat. Just the music and the crowd and their unfamiliar clothing. Just her hand in his, and the knowledge that the Doctor had come to find her, had crossed time and space to reach her, all because he _missed her_.

And as full as her days had been, as content as she was in Jane’s company, Clara couldn’t deny that she had missed him as well. It was different than when they’d parted after Danny died, this time she’d known the Doctor would come back for her eventually. But still, she had missed him, each and every day since he’d brought her to stay with Jane.

Something had shifted between them after Christmas, something she hadn’t wanted to examine too closely, half afraid of what it might mean. Clara had been aware of her own feelings for the Doctor for quite some time, but for months she’d had no reason to think he felt the same for her. He had made it clear that he wasn’t her boyfriend, and she had never expected him to be, but— 

But Jane was right, anyone could see how attached they were to each other now. And yet she hadn’t been entirely honest with her friend when she told her that she and the Doctor had an _understanding_. An understanding implied that they had actually discussed their situation, their feelings for each other and what it meant for their future. There had been no discussion at all, after he’d asked her to run away with him at Christmas, just this unspoken but undeniable change in the atmosphere between them.

Not talking about it didn’t make it any less real. And if she had learned anything from Danny’s death, it was how quickly the chance to say what needed to be said could be lost forever. She wouldn’t lose that chance with the Doctor, no matter how nervous she was to broach the topic.

Gathering her courage and taking a deep breath, Clara started, “Doctor—” 

“Have I done something to offend people?” he asked her in the same moment, his attention on the room around them, his eyebrows drawn together. “Is the lack of gloves really that scandalous?”

She was too short to see anyone but those in their immediate vicinity, but she asked anyway, “Who have you offended?”

“That fellow seems rather angry with me,” he said, nodding slightly towards the edge of the dancefloor, where Clara caught a fleeting look at the man in question. “Him as well,” he added as he led her through a turn in the dance. “And the expression on that one is actually quite concerning. Are there Zygons in 1814? Should I scan the room for alien lifeforms, do you think?”

The crowd parted long enough to give Clara a quick glance at the third man, confirming her suspicions, and she smothered a laugh. “They aren’t Zygons, and you haven’t done anything to offend them, but I may well have done. Those men each asked me to dance earlier, and I refused, told them I didn’t wish to dance with anyone.”

The Doctor looked down at her, eyebrows still furrowed in confusion. “Should we not have...?”

“I don’t want to dance with anyone _except you_ , Doctor,” she said, holding his gaze. “You are the _only_ person I want to dance with. Tonight or any other night,” she added in a burst of bravery.

“Clara,” he said in a low voice, his grasp on her hand tightening for a moment.

She swallowed and looked away, unable to bear the intensity of his eyes in that moment. Actually saying it was harder than she had thought it would be. “It was Valentine’s Day where you were, and you missed me. Well... I was here. Missing you.”

“I would have come sooner, if I’d known,” he said quietly. “The TARDIS is locked onto your mobile, you could have phoned.”

“I know,” Clara said, feeling her heart beat wildly beneath her ballgown. She took another deep breath and sighed it out, trying to find some level of control. “I know. But Jane needs me, this dry spell has her climbing the walls, half convinced she’ll never write again. And you and I both know how you are about staying in one place. I didn’t want to ask you to do that.”

“You shouldn’t have to ask,” he murmured, and she looked up at him again, pinned by his gaze. 

The musicians ended their song with a flourish, and the Doctor guided their dance to a halt. He dropped her hand and took half a step back, even as he continued to hold her gaze. Around them, the other couples were leaving the floor, but they stood a moment longer, staring at each other. Everything she wanted to say was there in his expression, all the words that were caught on the tip of her tongue were present in his eyes.

“Please,” he said in a low voice, offering her his hand, “don’t even argue.”

At the repetition of his words from Christmas, Clara smiled warmly up at him. She laid her hand in his, just as she had then, and silently nodded her understanding. Maybe it didn’t need to be said, after all. Maybe they had understood each other perfectly all these weeks.

The Doctor held her gaze as he raised her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, and Clara felt her breathing go shallow again. As though he’d noticed, he raised an eyebrow at her in amusement, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. She huffed out a laugh and shook her head ruefully, and let him transfer her hand to his arm and lead her from the dancefloor like a proper gentleman. 

They had covered a fair bit of ground while dancing, and it took a moment to reorient themselves in the room and find where they’d left Jane. Finally the crowd parted long enough for the Doctor to catch sight of her, still sitting in one of the chairs that lined the edge of the dancefloor, and he guided Clara through the press of people towards her.

“Is she alright, do you think?” he asked quietly. “I don’t know what that expression means on her, but on you I would find it— worrying.”

Clara followed his eyeline, leaning in to catch a glimpse of Jane, and instantly recognised the look on her friend’s face. “Oh! No, not worrying at all: that’s her writing face,” she said. “She’s composing in her head, and trying not to forget anything. Which hopefully means she’s finally gotten past this writer’s block! We should get her home, let her get those words onto the page before we do irreparable harm to _Emma_.”

When they reached her, Jane was all knowing smiles and sly glances, but at Clara’s suggestion that perhaps they ought to return home so she could write, her expression shifted to one of concern. “If you would not mind it so very much?” she asked seriously. “I hate to draw you away so soon, but I would prefer to be at home as quickly as possible. As it is, it will take us twenty minutes to walk there from here, and I find myself quite suddenly bursting with words that must be written down.”

“Of course I don’t _mind_ ,” Clara told her. “This is the entire reason I’m here! Come on, let’s get you to your writing desk before you explode.”

“I have— uh, my carriage, parked outside,” the Doctor said, stumbling slightly over his words. “I could take you home a great deal quicker than twenty minutes.”

“The blue box?” Jane asked, her face lighting up. “But no,” she went on before Clara or the Doctor could reply. “No, as much as I long to see the interior for myself, I am afraid it will put me off my writing, and fill my head with ideas of the future that a modern readership can hardly be ready to hear. I shall walk instead, and cousin, if you would join me,” she said, turning to Clara, “we might put the twenty minutes to good use in discussing the particulars of Mr Weston’s ball, and better organising my thoughts on the scene.”

Clara exchanged a quick look with the Doctor, who nodded in response to her unspoken question: he would meet her at the Austen home, and stay for however long Jane needed her. She smiled at him gratefully and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze before gently pulling away from him to go to Jane.

“Miss Oswald, Miss Austen,” he said, bowing to them. They curtseyed in response, and with one last lingering glance at Clara, the Doctor turned and disappeared back into the crowd.

As soon as they were outside, walking arm-in-arm down the lane that led to her home, Jane asked slyly, “Now, tell me, cousin, are you still so very annoyed that I insisted you dance tonight?”

“Jane!” Clara laughed, shocked. “I thought you wanted to discuss your plans for this next chapter of _Emma_?”

“Oh, Mr Weston’s ball is now perfectly secured in my mind, have no fear. An absolute fairyland, I assure you. It shall be a chapter of interlaced dramas of whom will dance with whom, all leading up to the moment of love blossoming on the dancefloor. In the end I was _most_ inspired by tonight’s assembly, and I must thank you for your role in that.”

“Well,” Clara said, fighting down a blush at her implication, “I’m glad the outing did you good.”

“I think perhaps I am not the only one?”

“I quite enjoyed myself,” she replied, unwilling to confirm Jane’s suspicions any further than that.

“The Doctor, too, I suspect,” Jane said anyway, undeterred. “I do not think I have ever seen a man look quite so in love as he did as you danced together.”

Clara shot her a quick look, startled. “Did he?”

“Could not you see it?” she asked, frowning slightly. “You must know, surely you must know how much he cares for you. You said you had an understanding, the two of you?”

“And I believe we do,” Clara said. “I think we understand each other perfectly. But it isn’t something we talk about. If I loved him less, I might be able to talk about it more,” she added ruefully, only realising what she’d just paraphrased as the words left her mouth. Bootstrap paradox, indeed.

Jane laughed easily. “And now you sound like Mr Knightley. I might have to borrow that line from you, cousin.”

“Please do,” Clara replied, laughing as well and hoping her small slip up wouldn’t do any lasting damage to the history of English literature. Sensing an opportunity to steer Jane away from the topic of the Doctor, she said, “I would very much like to hear about your plans for Mr Weston’s ball, in the few minutes we have left before we reach home.”

“But you have read the finished chapter already!” Jane objected.

“Many, many times. But it is entirely different to hear you speak about it. It’s one of the things I love most about knowing you, and a privilege many of your readers in the future would kill to have. Please indulge me, cousin dear?”

“Oh, all right,” Jane sighed in mock indignance, “if only to stop your flattery.”

By the time they reached the turn off for the Austen home, Jane had laid out the familiar scene of Mr Weston’s ball with all its colourful characters, described at length the various moving pieces of the overlapping romances in play, and recited at least half of Miss Bates’ rapid-fire dialogue in a voice that put to shame every performance of the character that Clara had ever seen, leaving her clutching her sides with laughter.

“I think you may be well and truly past this writer’s block, Jane,” she told her as they neared the house. The TARDIS was parked inconspicuously under a large oak tree, its lantern a welcoming glow in the late summer’s evening darkness.

“I sincerely hope so,” Jane replied. “If I hadn’t had you here to encourage me and ensure me that the future attests to a completed novel, I might have worried that my writing days were done for good.”

“Then I am glad I could be of help,” Clara said, squeezing her arm affectionately.

“But I am afraid I shall be detestable company tonight, my dearest friend. Once I have my pen in hand, I do not mean to stop, and may well be at it until late into the night. And here you are, still dressed for a ball, and I have cut short your evening.”

“And as I said before, I do not mind!”

“Truly, cousin, you must go enjoy yourself — you and the Doctor both, with my compliments. I believe my words will flow that much easier if I know you and he are out there somewhere, dancing together.”

“If Jane Austen demands I go to a ball, who am I to argue?” Clara laughed. “If you like, I could drop in tomorrow around noon, to see how the writing goes?”

“I should like that very much indeed,” Jane said as they paused outside the house. She pulled Clara into a hug, embracing her tightly. “Thank you, Clara,” she said softly. “You have often told me how privileged you feel to have formed this friendship, you and I, but from my end I believe I have received the far greater benefit.”

Clara squeezed her in response, at a loss for words, and carefully filed the memory away with her most treasured moments. “Until tomorrow, then, my dear Jane,” she said when they broke apart. 

Jane nodded and moved to go inside, but paused on the threshold and turned back to her, taking her hands. “Clara, you are my dearest cousin, in my heart if not in reality. You must do this one thing for me.”

“What is it?” she asked, confused.

“Find a way to tell that Doctor of yours how you feel,” Jane said. “Do not leave it unspoken.”

“Jane...”

“I _insist_ on happy endings for all of my heroines,” she said seriously. “And of all my heroines, I hold you in the highest regard. Do this for me, dearest Clara. But more importantly: do it for yourself.”

Clara glanced over at the TARDIS, glowing silently under the oak tree. “I’ll make sure he knows,” she murmured in reply, knowing Jane was right. “I’ll find a way to tell him.”

They parted with another hug, and then Clara turned and made her way slowly to the TARDIS, thinking on Jane’s advice. When it came to the Doctor, it was so easy to leave everything unsaid, to continue on as they always had done. Even their mutual confession of missing each other was new and uncharted territory. They had agreed not to lie to each other anymore, after realising what their lies that day in the café had nearly cost them — but it was a very different thing to openly acknowledge their feelings for one another, to put a name to it and give it the power to determine their future.

She took a deep breath before she pushed open the door of the TARDIS, completely unsure of how to approach this conversation.

The Doctor looked up when she entered. He was still wearing his Regency finery, which Clara found strangely reassuring: he had come straight to meet her, hadn’t even stopped off anywhere long enough to change clothes.

He watched her as she peeled off her long gloves. “You’re not staying with Jane?” 

Clara shook her head, walking towards where he was standing next to the console. “I promised to drop by at lunch tomorrow and see how she’s getting on. In the meantime, you and I are under strict instructions to go enjoy ourselves.”

“What’d you have in mind?” he asked as she stopped beside him.

“Well, we are dressed for a ball, after all,” she pointed out, smiling up at him. “Might as well make use of the period clothing.”

“Hmm. We could drop in on the Prince Regent’s ascension ball in 1811,” the Doctor suggested, glancing away from her in a sign of nervousness that Clara was quickly coming to recognise. “Or if you’d rather stick with 1814, Prince George holds another at Carlton House in London about a month from now, not nearly as crowded as the ascension ball, if memory serves. Or we could jump ahead instead — there’s a wonderful costume party on Luna in 2275, celebrating the five hundredth anniversary of Jane Austen’s birth. Dressed like this, we’d fit right in.”

Clara laughed, enjoying his rambling. “Why choose?” she asked. “We have a _time machine_ , why not go to all three?”

“If you think your dancing slippers are up to it,” he said, shrugging with forced casualness. He glanced at her and away again. “Anything you want, Clara,” he went on, quieter. “Anything at all.”

She hesitated, thinking on Jane’s advice. “I don’t need to dance all night,” she told him softly. “I don’t need lavish balls, or exciting destinations.” She took a breath to steady herself, then with as much courage and honesty as she could summon added, “Just being with you is enough.”

The Doctor silently covered her hand with his own where it rested against the console, sending a little shiver through her. They stood like that for a long moment, neither one breaking the connection or stepping away. There was a whole universe waiting for them beyond the TARDIS’s doors, but there was nowhere Clara would rather be than standing beside the Doctor, her hand in his.

“I know the perfect spot,” he murmured finally, wrapping his hand around hers and gently pulling her with him towards the destination controls on the other side of the console. He entered the coordinates one-handed, and with a glance at Clara, pulled the lever that would send them into the Vortex. When the TARDIS materialised, the Doctor quickly entered something else into the console, then turned for the doors.

“Come on,” he said unnecessarily, Clara’s hand still clasped in his own.

“Where are we?” she asked with bemused curiosity as she followed willingly behind him.

He shot her a look, his eyes sparkling in the low light, but didn’t answer. They stopped in front of the doors, and as he pulled them open, Clara could feel his gaze fixed on her face.

The sight that greeted them was something straight out of a fairytale. A dense star field stretched away in every direction, glittering like millions of diamonds against the blue-black of space. Clara’s breath caught in her throat, and she clutched at the Doctor’s hand as something like vertigo but infinitely more pleasurable swept through her, leaving her lightheaded.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, staring in awe.

From the direction of the console, music began to play, a delicate lilting waltz, and Clara glanced behind them and then at the Doctor, who was still watching her, his expression soft.

“I know you said you don’t need to dance tonight, but I thought...”

This time Clara couldn’t blame her breathlessness on an overcrowded room, or her unfamiliar clothing, or the exertion of dancing. It was just him, this man that she loved, and the way he was looking at her. “This is perfect,” she managed, not trusting her voice with anything more.

“Wait ‘til you see the view from outside,” he replied, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Outside?” she repeated in confusion, and as she watched, the Doctor carefully and deliberately took a step backwards out of the TARDIS and into the seeming emptiness of deep space, holding her gaze all the while.

“Gravity, atmosphere, and a good solid dancefloor,” he told her. “Courtesy of the TARDIS.” 

She let a thrill of fear and excitement run through her, then followed him through the doors, her grip still tight on his hand. As he’d promised, she could feel a solid floor beneath the soles of her dancing slippers, but looking down all she could see were distant stars twinkling in the darkness. Vertigo rushed through her again, and Clara quickly brought her gaze back up to the Doctor before it could overwhelm her. He smiled at her encouragingly, and urged her forward another few steps. 

Overhead, two spiral galaxies were engaged in the intricate, eons-long process of becoming one, and their combined light shone down like a chandelier in a cosmic ballroom, faint and sparkling. Entranced by the sight, Clara allowed the Doctor to lead her a little further from the TARDIS. The music drifted out the open doors after them, sounding like a distant party they had just stepped away from — away and into a universe all their own. 

And that’s what their life together was, Clara realised: something separate and otherworldly, beautiful and unbelievable. Something that seemed so completely impossible, but was as solid as the ground beneath her feet. 

“May I have this dance?” the Doctor asked quietly, and she returned her eyes to him, finding him watching her steadily in the starlight.

She stepped in close and positioned her left hand on his shoulder. “You may,” she said. “This one, and every other,” she added solemnly, holding his gaze.

His eyes crinkled softly in a smile. He shifted his hold on her hand and swept them into motion, spinning her across the invisible dancefloor in time to the waltz floating ethereally from the TARDIS.

“And here I thought dancing with you at a genuine Regency ball was as fairytale-like as my evening was going to get,” she murmured, trying to fix all the details of this moment firmly in her memory. “But not even Jane could dream up something this wonderful.”

“I forgot to ask, earlier,” the Doctor said in a matching tone, “what finally broke through her writer’s block?”

“We did,” Clara replied softly. “The sight of us dancing together was apparently all the inspiration she needed.”

“...I’m almost afraid to ask which part of _Emma_ she was stuck on.”

“Mr Weston’s ball,” she said, smiling in amusement, her gaze on the sight around them. “When Emma and Mr Knightley dance together.”

“Ah. Well.”

Clara hesitated, remembering what Jane had said but still unsure of how exactly to broach the topic. “Before we parted,” she said slowly, “Jane gave me some advice.”

“About what?” he asked, sounding confused.

“About you. About—” She broke off, struggling to find the right words. “I should have asked her to write something down for me, with her clever turn of phrase. Evidently I’m rubbish at this.”

The Doctor was quiet a long moment, then murmured, “I think maybe we both are.”

Clara looked up at him, holding his gaze and trying to memorise the way he was looking at her, the feel of his hand curled around hers, and the way the starlight caught in his silver hair.

“She said we shouldn’t leave it unspoken, and I—” She shook her head ruefully, still unable to actually give it voice. “I find myself quoting Mr Knightley again and again tonight,” she said instead. “I don’t know if I’ve ever understood him better, and that scene when he finally confesses his feelings for Emma even though he can hardly find the words. I can’t make speeches, either,” she told the Doctor, raising her eyes to his again. “But you— you _know_ me. And I think you know how I feel about you.”

He watched her, his gaze intent on her face, and then softly quoted, “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.”

She nodded, smiling tremulously up at him. “That’s exactly it, isn’t it?” she said. “The reason we’re both such rubbish at actually _saying_ the words. Even out here,” she went on, glancing around at the star field that encompassed them, “with no one but the stars and the colliding galaxies to overhear us. Even out here, it feels too big for words.”

In the distance, the music from the TARDIS came to a gentle stop, leaving them in the hushed silence of their magical little pocket of space and time. The Doctor guided their dance to a halt, and as he had done in the ballroom, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles.

“They don’t actually collide, you know,” he said gently, offering her his arm as they made their way back to the TARDIS.

“What?” Clara asked, looping her arm through his and looking up at him.

“The galaxies,” he said, nodding at the panorama above them. “From way out here, it looks like a collision, but in reality the distances between the stars is so vast, they don’t actually bump into one another.”

“So what happens, then?”

He shrugged slightly. “They affect each other’s gravity, make room for each other. Until eventually, it’s impossible to tell where one started and the other ended. And then they’re just one galaxy, inseparable. Like they were always meant to be that way.”

“One of the universe’s great love stories, sounds like,” she murmured.

“Indeed it is,” the Doctor said, and pressed another kiss to her hand.


End file.
